Wishes and Fears
by Laura Schiller
Summary: An early (very early) Halloween story, written for cojack and Alaster Boneman. "People tend to dress up as either what they're afraid of or what they wish for ... and it's often the same thing."


Wishes and Fears

By Laura Schiller

Based on: _Star Trek: Voyager_

Copyright: CBS

Author's Note: This story was written for **Alaster Boneman**, who asked for a Halloween story starring the Borg children, and for **cojack**, who asked for Mezoti noticing a connection between Chakotay and Seven.

I used Memory Beta as a source for the name of Chakotay's mother.

/

"Give us some candy or you will be assimilated."

For a moment, Chakotay actually got a chill down his spine. Lounging in his quarters with a good book at the end of his shift, the last thing he expected was to hear that deep, unnatural monotone produced by more than one Borg vocal processor working in unison.

Then he realized what they were saying. He felt so silly for taking fright that he broke into a broad grin.

Today's Earth date was October 31. Halloween. Of course.

"Sure," he said. "Come on in. I'll fire up the replicator."

Seven of Nine, Samantha Wildman, Naomi and the four Borg children trooped in, so bizarrely dressed that he couldn't stop smiling.

"I hope we're not disturbing you," said Samantha, glancing at the half-open hardcover on the coffee table with an apologetic smile. "It's just that Naomi was so pleased to have other children on board this year. She wanted to go trick-or-treating in a group and I thought, why not?"

She wore a basic witch's outfit with a black dress and pointy hat, with no cosmetics or accessories; clearly her efforts had gone more into designing the children's costumes than her own. She had a pumpkin-shaped basket tucked under her arm that was already half full of candy.

"Not at all," said Chakotay, rummaging in his trouser pockets for the data chip that contained his replicator rations. "Your costumes all look great."

"Are they suitably frightening for the occasion?" Icheb asked, looking grave in more than one sense of the word. He was a zombie, covered in grayish-white makeup and wearing rags stained with fake blood. "We asked the Doctor for help with our cosmetics. He made sure mine was accurate for a decomposing corpse."

Chakotay didn't know whether to laugh or feel queasy, but out of respect for the diligent young man, he swallowed both impulses down and gave him an approving nod. "It definitely is," he said. "Yours too, girls. Very authentic."

Naomi was dressed as a Borg drone, complete with aluminum armor plating, white makeup almost like Icheb's, a skullcap that covered her hair, a gauntlet over her left hand and a fake ocular implant glued over her left eye. She held up her fist and brandished a pair of floppy "assimilation tubules" – silver-painted shoelaces - in Chakotay's direction. Obligingly, he flinched. She giggled.

"Five of Five, I presume?" said Chakotay.

He shot a glance over her head at Samantha, wondering if she approved of her daughter imitating her Borg playmates, but his colleague looked happy, if a little frazzled by the demands of this holiday. He supposed that with Seven's and all four Borg children's expertise at _Voyager_'s disposal, the chance of the Collective ever posing a real threat to Naomi was basically zero. Besides, she did look ridiculous. Her skullcap was getting crooked.

"Uh-huh! Mezoti helped," Naomi said proudly, putting her unencumbered arm around her friend's shoulders and twirling her around. "And I helped her with her hair. Look, isn't she pretty?"

"A Risan beautician couldn't have done a better job."

Mezoti was a miniature Seven in a blue jumpsuit (not as close-fitting as the real Seven's) with a fake ocular implant glued over her left eyebrow. Her long brown hair was even dyed blonde and pinned into a French twist, although several strands were already loose.

"Was that enough conversation?" she demanded. "Or can we have the candy now?"

Azan and Rebi - little ghosts in bedsheets, which made them even more difficult to tell apart than usual – nodded emphatically and edged closer to the shelf where the replicator stood. The closest twin reached for the buttons.

"Children." Seven caught the backs of the twins' sheets and tugged them gently but firmly backward, giving Mezoti a reproachful look. "Do not be greedy. Trick-or-treating is a social event as much as a collection of sugar-flavored biomatter, am I correct, Samantha?" She looked to her fellow guardian for support, who nodded. "Do you have sufficient rations, Commander?"

Seven was the only one without a costume. Chakotay had never thought he'd see the day when one of those skintight exosuits would look ordinary to him, but tonight it did. She seemed out of her element here, her eyes worried as she looked from her charges to Chakotay. Chakotay had never seen her like this before; normally she was, or at least acted, so confident. It made him warm to her a little. She must care about her young wards very much if she was willing to go through something as un-Seven-like as this.

The children, even 16-year-old Icheb, all looked so alarmed by the prospect of him not having enough rations for the candy that he started doing rapid-fire calculations in his head. He would eat Neelix's cooking all next week if he had to. It would be worth it.

"More than sufficient," he said, sliding in the data chip and opening the menu. "Let's see. Any intolerances?"

"Negative," the Borg children chorused, Naomi's voice rising to a squeak over the sound of four Borg vocal processors.

"Borg implants do not react well to synthehol or alcohol," Seven added, raising her human eyebrow, "But I trust you were not intending to serve those."

Chakotay remembered how tipsy she had been at the launch party for the failed quantum slipstream drive and emphatically shook his head. "Any dislikes?"

"Bananas!" – "Broccoli!" – "Leola root!" – "Anything too nutritious would break the rules of the ritual, don't you know?" That last one was, of course, the irrepressible Mezoti. Seven and Samantha exchanged commiserating eye rolls. Chakotay smiled.

"I'll take your word for it. Computer, seven boxes of random-mix chocolate truffles. Small. Synthehol-free. Halloween packaging."

The replicator whirred and lit up. A stack of black paper cubes with orange ribbons around them materialized inside, each containing four mysteriously flavored chocolates. He could hardly pass them out fast enough; the children crowded around him like sparrows around a handful of corn.

"Thank you, sir!" – "Thank you, Commander!" – "When may we eat them?" – "Not all at once, or do you want your teeth to decay and be extracted by the Doctor?" – "Shut up, Icheb, you're spoiling the ritual!"

"You're welcome, everybody," Chakotay interrupted, using his Maquis captain's voice to cut off the impending argument. "You too, of course," keeping the last boxes and holding them out to Samantha and Seven. "For all your hard work."

"Aw, thanks, Chakotay!" Samantha beamed as she tucked her gift into a pocket in the tattered black layers of her witch's dress. "By the end of the night, I'm sure we'll have earned it, eh, Seven?"

Seven's reaction, however, startled him, and burned itself into his memory, where it would keep him awake for some time that night. She cupped the little box in both hands and blinked down at it as if she couldn't believe it was real.

"A gift for me?" she said in a hushed whisper, as if to herself. "When was the last time … ?"

Was that true? After two full years on _Voyager_, was it still so rare for her to receive a gift – not a necessity like clothes or tools or replicator rations, but simply something to show they cared about her? True, it would be difficult to choose something the hyper-efficient Borg woman wouldn't dismiss as irrelevant … but judging by the look on her face, perhaps not so difficult after all.

Then she looked up, saw Chakotay's eyes on her, and pulled herself together into a posture as stiff and straight as on her first day aboard. Her cheeks, however, unlike that first day, were pink.

"Thank you, Commander," she said crisply. "Have a pleasant evening."

Samantha had already herded the children out the door. They could be heard in the corridor on the way to their next victim. Seven pivoted on her heel to join them, the chocolates clutched so tightly in her Borg-enhanced hand Chakotay hoped she wouldn't squash them.

Following an impulse he couldn't explain, he put out his hand to catch her upper arm as she walked past him. She could have pulled free easily, but did not.

"Seven? Um … mind if I ask why you're not in costume?"

"The Captain assured me they were not mandatory," she said, in a defensive tone that made him wonder how many people had already asked her that today.

"They're not. I'm just curious."

"I could not choose," was all she said.

Couldn't she? The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Costumes were all about being someone you were not, but how could she decide that when she was still learning who she was?

Chakotay looked over at his uniform jacket slung over a chair and thought of all the other uniforms and insignia – Starfleet, World War II American, Vori, prizefighter, Maquis – he had worn in his lifetime. All costumes. But at least he knew when the time was right to put them on and take them off. At least he knew who he was without them.

"You know," he said. "I wrote a paper in my anthropology class at the Academy about disguise rituals in different cultures. The way I understand it, people usually dress up as either what they're afraid of or what they wish for … and it's often the same thing."

He would very much like to see her in costume, he thought, to his own surprise. He would like to know what she was afraid of and what she wished for.

"Are you going to Mr. Paris' party tonight?" Seven asked. "The Captain has … encouraged me to attend."

There was a subtle note of irony in her voice he could relate to; they both knew what Kathryn Janeway's "encouragement" could be like. Fifteen minutes ago, Chakotay's answer would have been a firm no – he'd been looking forward to several hours of peace and quiet – but in this moment, he would himself saying: "Maybe … yes, I think I will."

"And what will _you_ be wearing, Commander?"

She tilted her head. Her bright blue eyes scanned him from top to toe, as if she were picturing him in a different outfit. If she were an ordinary woman, he would have suspected her of checking him out – but surely not, he told himself.

"Come to the party and see," he replied.

A high, carrying voice interrupted his thoughts: "Seven? Aren't you coming?"

Mezoti stood in the doorframe, fidgeting with impatience, chocolate staining her hands and face. She looked from Seven to Chakotay and back again, frowning.

"You're being summoned," said Chakotay. "Go ahead, I'll see you later."

"Very well." Seven inclined her sleek blond head and turned to leave.

As Chakotay headed for his bedroom closet, wondering how his empty ration chip was supposed to produce a costume, he faintly heard the young girl ask what was so interesting about "that man" that it would make Seven fall behind schedule. Her foster-mother's answer, though, was too quiet for him to hear.

/

Stepping into Holodeck Two, Chakotay was immediately enveloped in a cloud of dry ice and the sound of "Monster Mash". The setting was Chaotica's fortress from Tom's _Captain Proton _series: thick stone walls with cobwebs in the corners, flickering torches, and a Death Ray like a giant steel banana in the center of the room. Thankfully though, Chaotica and his minions didn't seem to be in evidence. And the table where he usually kept his instruments of torture was loaded with snacks. Some were altered via holographic technology to look like eyeballs or severed fingers, but others looked quite delicious, including a generous array of pizzas and more marshmallows, lollipops and licorice sticks than anyone could possibly eat. Blood-red punch and golden apple cider steamed in wide glass bowls. The whole setup had Tom Paris written all over it.

Tom himself (Captain Proton, of course) was the life of the party, laughing with B'Elanna (Lady Lukara of Klingon legend), at the sight of Captain Janeway (Queen Arachnia) pulling a string of mozzarella cheese off her black lace sleeve. Meanwhile Harry (Beowulf) was dancing energetically with one of the Delaney sisters (some fictional character probably chosen for her very small leather bikini), while the other twin (a bunny) stood in a corner giggling with Tal Celes (a 1950's American waitress with curled hair and a frilly apron). Billy Telfer (a skinny vampire in an oversized cape) was listening wide-eyed as the EMH (a beak-masked medieval Plague Doctor) lectured him about the historic origins of his costume. Neelix (a particularly hideous Vidiian) was presiding over a DJ booth in the corner, which perhaps explained why the music was so loud. It couldn't be easy for him to hear properly with all those prosthetics on his head.

Chakotay couldn't see Tuvok, but he supposed the Vulcan was either on the bridge, supervising the night shift crew, or in his quarters. This party wouldn't be his cup of tea at all, and unlike Seven, the Captain didn't consider him in need of improving his social skills.

At least half the crew must have been here, it was so crowded, and the other half (except for the night shift crew) was probably at a similar party on Holodeck One.

But where was Seven?

People called out to Chakotay and clapped him on the back as he walked by ("Isn't this great?" – "Hey boss, good to see you!" – "Where's your costume?", the latter of which rather amused him), but he returned their greetings absent-mindedly, looking out for someone tall and blonde. Unless she'd dyed her hair or put on a hat, of course, in which case she could be anyone …

"Commander?"

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around – and could hardly believe his eyes.

Seven wore a dark red cable-knit sweater, brown slacks, and rubber-soled shoes. Her hair was down and fell in loose waves around her shoulders, held back from her face only by a few pins. She looked like a woman he'd walk by anywhere on Earth without noticing … No. That wasn't true.

She looked like a woman he'd smile at, or even speak to, if he could gather up the courage. She looked warm, autumnal, slightly shy, and utterly beautiful.

"Hello." His mouth was dry. He second-guessed his decision to skip the punch. "So … you survived trick-or-treating, did you?"

"Barely," she said, poker-faced. "The children are in the next room with Samantha, roasting marshmallows. We ensured that the safety protocols were engaged."

"Good idea." And very kind of Samantha to let her friend have some time alone with adults. She certainly was earning her chocolate.

"Would you, um … would you like to dance?"

"I am unfamiliar with this type of music."

Seven wrinkled her nose at the sound of "They're Coming To Take Me Away, Ha-Haa!" now cackling over the loudspeakers. Chakotay blushed, calling himself an idiot in Spanish, Klingon and Cardassian. But a moment later, as if the universe were watching and had decided to make things easy for once, the song changed. It was now a slow waltz, eerie but beautiful, like a music box playing in a haunted house.

Seven held up her arms tentatively, as if she wasn't sure his invitation still applied. He took her right hand, placed her left one on his shoulder, and led her onto the floor.

"I should warn you," she said, somewhat stiffly and awkwardly following his lead. "The last time I danced resulted in physical injury."

"What happened?" If some son of a bitch had tried to hurt her … That is to say, naturally as First Officer he didn't condone any violence among the crew.

"I attempted to spin him and tore a ligament in his shoulder."

"Oh." He bit his lip, reminding himself sternly not to laugh. Poor Seven – and her partner too, whoever he was. "In that case, maybe I should do the spinning. At least for now."

"Agreed."

She relaxed, as if his reaction to the embarrassing story had won him a small measure of her trust. Strange, to think he was dancing with a woman who had steel in her bones, who was strong enough to send him to Sickbay without even trying. And yet her hands on him were gentle, and she moved in exactly the direction he meant for her to move. He felt powerful, almost young again, as he spun her around and back into his arms.

"Your costume, Commander … " She ran her fingers lightly over the fabric. "What does it signify?"

He was wearing a faded red shirt, a reddish-brown leather vest, matching pants, and all-terrain boots that, come to think of it, were rather a challenge to waltz in. Lucky for him that he hadn't gained too much weight, although the pants were tighter than he would have liked.

He glanced sideways at her red-sleeved arm covering his and noticed for the first time that the colors almost matched. Also, in a roomful of monsters, myths and heroes, he and Seven – of all people – were the only normal-looking ones.

"It's what I was wearing on my last day as a Maquis captain_._ It's, well … it's not me anymore, so it's as good a costume as any."

He didn't want to tell her he'd cleaned out his ration chip and could not afford a new costume. She would only point out how impractical he was, or else offer to repay him, which would defeat the purpose of giving her – and the children, and Sam of course – a gift.

"And does it represent a wish or a fear?"

Trust Seven of Nine to ask him that, so matter-of-factly, as if asking about the weather. She looked up at him with such focus that he had to make an effort to break eye contact, otherwise he would have bumped her right into the Death Ray.

"Well, I don't wish for any more run-ins with Cardassians," he said, smiling grimly at the memory. "Still … I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss being in command. And I … I'd give almost anything to bring back the people we lost."

Seven looked away over her shoulder and held a respectful silence, perhaps thinking of her own losses. Had her parents worn clothes like hers? Cable-knitting was an ancient tradition in northern Europe. Perhaps, like him, she was a kind of living memorial tonight.

Everyone on _Voyager_ knew what it was like to mourn for someone, but he suspected his way and Seven's were not that different. Like him, she seemed to have no use for platitudes. Instead her hands tightened just a little, perhaps unconsciously, as if to say _I've got you, _or else _Don't let me go. _It comforted him better than words.

"What about yours?" he asked, leaning in closer so he could speak quietly. "A wish or a fear?"

"My mother often wore red," she said. "You were correct … they are not always easy to distinguish."

They danced and a swarm of ghosts, costumed and otherwise, danced with them. But tonight was the one night of the year when ghosts were welcome, and it was on their honor that the living chose to celebrate. They danced for Magnus and Erin, for Kolopak and Tananka, for everyone who wasn't here tonight. Then just oncee more – for themselves.

/

"Icheb, look at this!" Mezoti hissed, waving her foster-brother over with an imperious, sticky hand. She was standing on tiptoe, watching the adults' party through an iron grille in the door.

"You shouldn't spy on people," he muttered, but went to stand next to her anyway, finding that resistance, as so often, was futile. Being taller, he had a better view, and so he could see immediately what she was so agitated about.

Seven. Dancing. In the arms of Commander Chakotay. With half-closed eyes and smiles on both their faces.

"If they get married," Mezoti asked wistfully, "Would that make him our guardian too?"

"One dance doesn't equate to marriage, you know that." Icheb looked behind him at Ensign Wildman and Naomi. "And not all families need two parents to be happy."

The Wildmans were curled up on a pile of pillows and blankets by the fireplace, Naomi tucked under her mother's arm, their light hair shimmering by the light of the holographic flames. Azan and Rebi sat on either side of them, their ghost bedsheets thrown off and crumpled in corners, tired out after too much running around on a sugar high. Ensign Wildman was reading them a ghost story, but everyone was too sleepy by now to feel properly scared. Except Mezoti, apparently, whose energy was boundless – especially when something fascinated her.

She followed the direction of Icheb's gaze and sighed. "I know," she said. "But it would be agreeable to have a mother and father. Good ones, I mean."

_Unlike mine,_ Icheb thought, feeling a momentary chill despite the warmth of the fireplace. He understood how Mezoti felt, and why she would choose him rather than Naomi to confide in. Naomi might be her best friend, but it was different for someone who'd grown up with a loving, capable parent all her life.

The Commander had been very kind to them all earlier that evening. And taking another look through the grille, Icheb wondered if he'd ever seen their foster-mother so relaxed.

"Well, don't tell Seven that," he advised, "Or she'll never agree to the idea. But if she _were_ looking for a mate, she could do worse."

"And if they procreate," Mezoti went on with dreamy eyes, "We could have a baby brother or sister."

"All right, now I know someone needs to regenerate. You're getting sillier by the minute."

He ruffled her hair, unraveling what remained of her French twist, and she let out a squeal of protest that interrupted Ensign Wildman's reading. But even as the woman switched off her padd and tiredly but firmly asked them to follow her down to Cargo Bay Two, the image in Icheb's mind was still a dancing couple in red and brown.

In the years to come, he would celebrate many Halloweens with his shipmates in Starfleet, but never forget his first one. He would associate it not with candy, but with the sound of a waltz; not with death, but with the hope of new beginnings.


End file.
